Spiral the glossy gangster in seconds
Spiral the glossy second-gangster dream
Spiral the gangster whose glossy dream seconds
The spiral of gangster-lined seconds. (g)loss
Spiral the second glossy gangster
Spiral the second gangster of gloss.

He first saw the word drowning through broken
glass on the highway. He dreamed of butterflies
born from the artifacts of Auschwitz.
'Last night the letter 'L' appeared to me in a vision accompanied by twelve wolves bearing the insignia of the SS’ He turns to laughter in the shade
of a facade ready to face the end. A smile flashes
and then dissapears into a crowd.
‘I'm hungry’ the man says, blinking wildly, yawing,
touching his thin lips, caressing the tips of his fingers with the void, dreaming of medicine. A cucumber
yawns at sunset. The words are written in blood on the
hood of his Trans-Am but he cannot read the sound.
Grunts slither through the concrete and steadily the
man undersatnds that language is unimportant, it is in
the act of moving your wrist in the delicate motions of
Stravinsky, of counting the spaces between words and
knowing that someone on the otherside of the earth is
counting them too.
Telepathic.
The dictionary on fire, their are stacks of Webster’s
and American editions and all of them need to be destoryed. The man knows this and is ready for the coming
age of Aquarius. He is burning a bridge to an epoch
without definitions.
The car is still on the side of the highway, metal
twisted in the rain-soaked reflection of World War Two
films, the sleek flash of what could had been
(A porch in detroit around ‘77, the crooked smile of
the women you love, grey hairs. A march to the center
of time,)
eyes pressed against glass as the man circles his car
with his hands shoved in the warm nest of his pockets.
An officer is on the scene his mouth tangled in the perplexed angle of an orphan. The man is asking himself
what the word ‘drown’ means. The cop, thinking the questions apply to him, is doing his best to answer. tions
apply to him, is doing his best to answer.

A terrible way to die.’ he says, shaking his head. 'A
somersualt into the future'.
Blackness.
The young trees that create a barrier to the highway
rustle.
The man walks into a lower middle class housing development bleeding from his left ear, his check bones
sunken. He strides like lost officers from the Tsar’s
white army, drifting aimlessly through an invisible
Saint Petersburg. He knocks on a red door framed in
blue. He asks for gas. The woman (she is younger, with
a drawn expression, a beautiful hand extends itself
over the threshold in a willful, fluid movement) seems
afraid.
She offers to call the police, but the man says they
are already there.
'Tea?' she asks.
He nods his head.
In the kitchen he can hear her whistle and asks what
the tune is.
‘Nothing’ she sighs.
‘What were you doing before I arrived?’ he asks.
‘Reading,’ she says.
A forelorn look washes over her only to be obscured by
the half-wall that divides the kitchen from the living
room.
‘You like reading?’ he asks, his pitch affected by something that hovers in the soft space between excitment
and horror. ‘Whats the book?’
‘It’s poetry actually. Before I was married I used to
read all the time. These days its just a few poems here
and there.’
She walks into the living room bringing the tea on a
tray, sliding next to him she stares into his brown
eyes.
‘I used to write.’ She says, lowering her head and
blushing.
He touches her knee. She slides it away casually.
‘Where’s your restroom?’
‘Down the hall.’ she says. ‘My kids will be home, do
you think you could leave soon?’
He nods.

When he returns the women is naked, reclining on the
couch reading poetry aloud. The man glares at her with
a detached hatred. They kiss briefly. He chews her bottom lip as she moans slightly.
There is a stream that smooths over rocks, a wandering
over deserts, a demented battalion of cowards gnawing
on their femurs, carrying the word, written by god.
Silence.
The man’s breath reduced to a constant hum, a worm like
expression on his face. He gropes through the well-lit
living room as if he were in a dank cellar.
A telephone carries a void, marriage, a passage spelt
in indifference.
'I once dreamed of Sophie Plodski, of a winter that bled
orange lights, a doom that tasted like a heart'. The
man nods, comprehending nothing.
An ice storm of words leading to a singular space in
history.
On her broken body (discovered hours later) ‘liteRATure’ written in blood, her bruised face covered with
the ripped up pages of Hart Crane. The man carries a
pen and writes 'the history of words' on the windows of
parked cars. He punctures his left hand, stigmata
style. When questioned by the police a week later he
referres to himself as Homer, refusing to sign a confession claiming that he could not make out the words,
that he was—in his own way—illiterate.

I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers. You need to go to your girlfriend's house.
Where does she live? I think I know that area, it's
a little ways. Sure whatever, I was going to mow a
lawn, that stuff can wait. Where do you live? I
think I've seen that huge orange truck on my
street, more towards the old folk's home. Why yes,
I would like to partake in this joint. Well here's
your girl's house. Later.
I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers. Yea sure get in. Really? Right here? You were
serious when you said ‘just up the street’. When
most people hitchhike it's because they need to
get to God knows where. Whatever, get out, you're
welcome.
I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers. I'm not old enough to drink sir, but I've been
known to drink. They kicked you out because it's
about two-fifteen a.m. and you're drunk. Please
don't ask why I'm driving about here at two-fifteen a.m. listening to this weird stuff. I guess I
can give you a ride ‘just up the street’, whatever
the hell that means. So the guys at the bar refused
to let you use the phone to call a cab. These guys
are out to get you. What'd you do to them? Well
its a dive bar...isn't drinking a lot what you’re
supposed to do? Of course you can give me five dollars, that's a kind gesture drunken Sir. This is
my Grandpa's old truck, she runs smooth don't she?
Well here you are drunken sir, your house. Three
dollars? What happen to the five dollars? That's
all you got? Whatever I'll take it. Thank you and
goodnight drunken sir.

I only stopped bacause I like picking up hitchhikers. Yea get in. That's nice of you, making this
midnight trek to go help your pregnant sister.
That would be weird being pregnant. Male seahorses
do it, but I am not a male seahorse. It's a good
thing you don't live too far from your sister. Good
luck in there, later

I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers, and from what you tell me you are not one.
Let me get this straight, you drove here from
Auburn to this shithole part of town, then you ran
out of gas, now your blue shit whatever Datsun is
down the street and you have been trying to flag
people down for gas money? I am apparently the
first person that this has worked on because you
are still asking for the full amount of eight dollars. I would much rather drive you all the way to
Auburn, spend the first part of my night with a
scared old black woman. I wouldn't even mind the
gas expense, but your car is here. I really don't
have the cash at hand. I know you're scared, I got
it the first time, please don't repeat it. I can
give you three dollars.

Ramses was wearing a brown turban. Every article of clothing he had on was brown, in fact,
all varying in hue. His eyes and skin were
also brown. Ramses was a dainty man. Not so
much effeminate, but dainty. His slender frame
sat at the bus stop, svelte arms and legs were
both crossed at his center, his long neck accentuated his straight posture. His elegant
physique seemed at odds with the drabness of
his wardrobe. Topping off his paradoxical appearance, the brown turban.
“Whoa, whoa, I’m getting some strong energy from you,
girl. Strong vibrations. I’m serious!”
I turned to look at him. I was standing about five feet
from where he sat.
“Seriously!” He pleaded.
He had the inflection of a southern black woman. I could
assume he fit the first two elements of that description.
“I’m a psychic I came here from L.A. to do some readings
for a client I’m just here to help out with the Gay
Pride Parade ya know? With readings and all but I’m serious I wouldn’t just say this. There’s a lot going on—
big things with you right now I can feel it.”
Ramses gesticulated with his willowy arms as he spoke.
Perhaps he was gay. It didn’t really matter. The main
impression was that I felt in no way threatened by this
man.
“I see you going a trip soon. I see you around water.
Are you planning a trip to Hawaii?”
“I was just talking about going to Hawaii with my
boyfriend.” I don’t know why I said this.
“Yes! And I see you growing your hair loooong.” He mimicked flowing long hair with his hands.
I thought of a mermaid.

“What else do you see?”
For whatever reason, I believed in Ramses ability, or
at least, I believed that he was in some way or another,
a professional. Maybe it was the turban, or the various
brown tones, all equally faded and nondescript. If he
hadn’t started speaking directly at me with such passion I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him, even
with the turban. Someone who could camouflage this well
had to be legit. I noticed at this point that Ramses
also had a brown paper shopping bag filled to the brim.
He was quite coordinated.
“Well I normally charge much more, but I can give you a
full reading with healings, predictions, the whole
thing for just $20.” His voice dropped slightly at the
end of his sentence, indicating that he would not continue his reading without compensation.
“My bus is going to be here soon, and I don’t have any
cash. I’m sorry.”
Why I felt apologetic, or responsible for paying to receive this man’s psychic services, was a mystery. I was
beginning to think Ramses’ true power was the power of
persuasion. Or mind control.
“There’s an ATM right inside that corner store.” He jutted his arm out behind him towards the liquor store that
was in fact right there.
I felt he had given me no way out. If the ATM was right
there I suppose I didn’t have an excuse. But wait, why
was I thinking this?
“Well, okay. I guess I could get the next bus.”
After I came back from the liquor store, twenty dollar
bill in hand, Ramses had changed slightly. He seemed
slightly less flamboyant and more subdued. Either he
was getting down to business, or he had succeeded in
his scam and was contemplating running with my bill.

“Great. I know this park a few blocks away. We could
sit there.” With his sales pitch over, Ramses had a new
calmness to his voice.
“Great.” I said.
Now I was the enthusiastic one. I was twenty dollars
deep in this situation and felt exhilarated by the recklessness of my investment. I’m normally a very frugal
person. I felt like I knew how gamblers feel at this
moment.
We walked side by side towards the park. Ramses remained
calmer than he had first appeared, but spoke freely
about his ex-wife, his mother who had practiced voodoo,
alcoholism, his friend and wife running off together,
all the while interjecting guesses and questions about
my own life.
“You seem like a creative type. Do you do stand-up comedy?”
We got to the park. The weather was absolutely perfect.
As Ramses began to lay out his equipment; various decks
of worn tarot cards, some crystals, and a handful of
other talismans that appeared to have invented purposes; I made eye contact with two older Mexican men
playing cards at a neighboring table.
Their presence had broken the spell. I was overwhelmed
by self-consciousness. Who else was watching this all
take place? Do they assume I’m just as crazy as this
man in a turban? His decks of cards were not nearly as
convincing as his initial evaluation of my strong energy field. I knew I couldn’t get out of the situation.
It had already begun.

The whole ordeal lasted around thirty minutes. It
could’ve been more. It’s hard to gauge. Ramses methodically went through each of the various decks and objects he had placed on the picnic table and did some
thing or another with them. I did my best to appear enthusiastic as I cooperated, but our psychic connection
had been severed before he had even begun. In the end
we walked back together towards the same bus stop. He
shared a little more with me about his personal life.
All very matter of fact and with no interest in my responses. I hoped he wasn’t waiting for the same bus as
me but when the twelve bus arrived we both boarded. I
chose to sit next to him. I felt it would be rude not
to. Ramses was surprisingly taken aback by my choice.
Self-consciousness again. What was happening? In his
aloof state, I decided to ask him questions about his
abilities. I realized this was what I was interested in
in the first place, not what a stranger in a brown turban had to say about my future. He answered each question, occasionally digressing into another personal
anecdote.
“What’s your name?” I finally asked.
“Hmm? Oh. It’s Ramses. Here you got a pen?”
I handed him a pen and my weekly planner. He scribbled
his name and a phone number onto an arbitrary page. It
was a page with dates listed on it. Some week in the
future when I’d need to make note of a dentist appointment, only to find Ramses’ contact information. He got
off at the very next stop, barely turning to say goodbye.

Hello Mr. P it’s so nice to hear from
you. I’m so glad you have decided to
give the ‘White Ventures Fund’ a—
Ah, certainly Mr. P—
Cut to the chase. Of course.
Well, we are creating an excellent new venture
that we would love for you to be a part of. In
essence for each ten thousand you put down you
allow us to bring a girl out from the clutches
of Eastern Europe into a life of free market
prosperity. As I’m sure you know most of Eastern
Europe is—even to this day—essentially a communist wasteland. These girls have nothing, nothing at all. No prospects whatsoever. We have a
very specific and highly guarded method which is
unique to our organization. At this point we
utilize your financial input for various fees
and condition so that we may to set these girls
up in one of our highly professional and,
frankly, quite lovely work houses. Once everything is moving along your investment begins to
pay off with a return of twenty-five percent of
the profits these girls bring in.
Now each girl is going to go for a different
price, and we are unable to guarantee the amount
of return you will see. Naturally we try to get
the best but tastes are always changing. On the
other hand there are plenty of other than ordinary customers out there, you know, freaks in
the parlance of the day, that will kill for one
of these—y’know—horsey looking ones, or one of
the real fat ones or even one of those one legged
ones. It’s all demand though, and if we can find
a reason—no matter how messed up—that these guys
demand one of these girls, we can jack the
prices up and get you the returns that you deserve.

Now you are looking at a guaranteed three-year
return on your investment here and the profits
start rolling in from day one or, of course,
from the first day the girl starts working. You
know this is the hard thing though: sometimes we
can get a girl out here in a month or two, sometimes it takes a little longer. We tend to see
losses begin around the third year. But as long
as we’ve got her working we’ll get you the
money, but that is really the only risk you need
to be aware of. Basically the more money you put
in the more even your profits are going to be.
So…so yeah, first off, I want to reassure you
that all our guys are first and foremost professionals. They have been doing this for years.
Things do happen of course, but look if something were to happen on the way over I can guarantee you your money back immediately. We have
been doing this for long enough and, honestly,
it has never been a problem. We’ve got these
things going all over the place, Belgium, Japan,
South Korea, the U.K.
So what’s it going to be then, Mr. P?
Seventy? Not bad. It’s a solid sum. Seven girls.
But what would you say about an even eighty?
We’ve had guys put in eighty who pay off their
investment in a year flat, and then it’s just
cream after that—
I know but look the difference between seventy
and eighty is—
Okay. Okay. Now I understand you there Mr. P
but—
Okay. Seventy-five? Well now you see, I’ve explained before that we do this in the ten-thousand dollar increments very specifically and—
Well yes you are welcome to come visit any time
you like. Yes, certainly. You are after all the
one who brought them out here so—
Um. Half…Half a?
I suppose we could do that.

We didn’t enter together. She went first and I followed a few minutes later. It seemed like we each
needed to take respite in our own thoughts. We held
the tail ends of these stray moments tightly and were
reluctant to speak. Eventually she looked up at me
with a perplexed rage.
'She knew you.'
Case in point
'Yes. That cracked-out old wench has been my lover since nineteen-fortyfive. We had children in eighteen seventy-nine, but
they passed on in early eighteen twenty from bullshit poisoning. From what I heard she died a few months ago.'
'Alright spill the pork and beans. What just happened in
there? Who is she?'
'I'm not quite certain how to explain this. Really. I've got
no data to go on. I just have this peculiar feeling that we're
on the same team. Her and I, I mean. I have no idea what team
you're on. Honestly it's more that we're sparring partners.
And I'm pretty sure she just upped the ante. Excuse the mixed
metaphor.’
'Fuck you. I don’t give two shits about your grammatical inconsistencies. I just want to know what's going to happen.'
'You and
worrying
wants to
knitting

me both toots. She won't kill me. If that's what your
your misshapen head over. I'm quite certain she just
make sure I'm up for it. I'm not going to take up
or anything. This is a preliminary examination.'

'Are we really doing this now? Playing games with inmates?
Intrigue and seriousness are not quite my style. I prefer
blunt objects.'
'Honey, I don’t know about you, but I've been playing this
game all along. Where ever it leads I'm going after it. Don’t
you want to be there when the fun starts?'
'All right grand master. So be it.'

On the next day all of the other contestants arrived and were
settling in. We headed back to the pen to check on our horse.
If anything she looked more like a discarded cabbage than a
competent adversary.
'Why are you here?'
The question seemed to strike her as redundant and elementary.
'We've already covered this. I'm old enough to be your grandmother and I knew you before you were born. Canada has sapped
the humor from your companion.'
'Enough of that. How do you know me?'
'I know you because artists always know of each other. We
rarely seek out our counterparts but that does not mean we
aren’t aware of them. And before you ask: I did not in fact
arrange this meeting. Pure chance precipitated this. I had
other avenues in mind. You needn’t trouble yourself with conspiracy and the like. This is simple fate or whatever you'd
like to call it.'
A slight shake of the head.
'That doesn't exactly answer my question.'
'It’s alright. You look tired. You don’t have all of your wits
about you. If it's all the same to you I'd like to continue
this discourse later. Have rest. Return around eight-thirteen.’